Is Swan Grave Based On A True Story?

​In the neon-soaked heart of Las Vegas, two worlds are destined to collide: one built on absolute power, and the other on desperate survival. Lucien Thorne is a 1.8-meter-tall predator who owns the very air of the Strip, ruling a global empire from the shadowed VIP lounge of his premier club with a heart of stone and a mind for cold calculation. He is the devil who never negotiates and never forgets. Stepping into his line of sight is Aurelia Van Guard, a woman who should have been a college graduate but is instead a daughter drowning in her father’s gambling debts and her mother’s terminal illness. Forced to take her mother’s place on the stage of the city’s most elite club, Aurelia is a girl with everything to lose, hiding her double life behind a veil of glamour. She is a survivor looking for a way out; he is a hunter who never lets go. When the "Devil" turns his eyes toward the new girl in the spotlight, the game changes. In a city where everything has a price, Aurelia is about to find out if she can escape the grasp of a man who feels no remorse, or if she will become the one thing the devil finally refuses to let go.

I knew my husband, Josh Perkins, had faked his death and taken on his younger twin brother's identity—but I never said a word. Instead, I went straight to the commander of the military district and filed an official report of my husband's death, requesting his name be permanently removed from the service rolls. In my last life, my brother-in-law died in an accident. Josh gave up his rank as regimental commander, abandoned his own name, and stepped into his brother's shoes—all to spare his fragile sister-in-law from becoming a widow. Back then, I recognized him immediately. I confronted him and demanded to know why he was pretending to be a dead man. But Josh just looked through me, cold as a winter morning. "Riley, I know you're grieving Josh. But I'm not him. Don't mistake me for my brother." He shielded that delicate sister-in-law of his behind him, then shoved me into the icy river and warned me not to harbor delusions. Later, our five-year-old daughter cried, asking why her daddy didn't want her anymore. For that, she was dragged to the cowshed for "reflection"—left there, starving, for three days and nights. My mother-in-law called me a curse, a jinx who'd killed her son, and threw my daughter and me out with nothing but the clothes on our backs. Josh made sure everyone knew I'd "gone mad"—that I was lusting after my brother-in-law before my husband was even cold in the ground. The whole town turned their backs on us. That last winter, I wandered the streets with my girl, dazed and numb, until the cold finally took us both. But when I opened my eyes again, I was back. Back to the very day Josh buried his old life and stole his brother's.

Ten years after my wealthy family took me back, I died in the rental house my billionaire parents had dumped me in. My son was three. Just to mess with me, the kidnapper gave me three chances to call for help. If even one person was willing to come see me, he'd spare my child. The first call was to my father, the man who'd spent fifteen years searching for me. He was busy directing the staff as they set up my adoptive sister's birthday party. When he picked up, he barked, "Estelle Emerson, seriously? Can you go one week without causing a scene? It's your sister's birthday. I'm busy. Don't kill the vibe." The second call was to my mother, the woman who brought me home and changed my name from Dixie to Estelle. But Vera snatched the phone and laughed so hard she could barely get the words out. "Estelle, seriously? If you're gonna make something up, at least make it believable. You look so broke you probably don't even have fifty bucks. What kidnapper would pick you?" The third time, I called Luca's father, my legal husband. He said he was in a meeting and didn't have time to play games with me. He also said that if I behaved myself, he'd agree to take me home for dinner next week. After the final call ended, I looked at the grinning kidnapper in despair and sent the last two messages of my life. A photo of myself covered in blood. And a short message, every word sincere. [I'm really going to die. In my next life, don't bring me home.]

I was the fiancee of Lucian Veris, the celebrated Swan Prince, who had offered up the principal role in exchange for my hand. On stage, he was proud and untouchable, yet he surrendered completely to the choreography I created for "Eternal Crown." When I came back after three years in Valmont, I discovered that the understudy who mirrored me had already claimed our private rehearsal hall. At the company's welcome gala, Lucian abandoned a room full of sponsors just to chase after the crying understudy. From behind the velvet curtain, I overheard words he had never spoken to me. "Elara, I chose you only because you reminded me of her. I was looking for a replacement. But you were different. Your choreography captivated me—more than she ever could. Just make sure she never finds out until the closing night of 'Eternal Crown.'" Then came the muffled sounds of their entanglement, followed by his whispered vow. "I'll give you the principal's place." Right there, in that same room, he had once held my hand and sworn that I, Astraea Lynelle, would be his only soulmate in this lifetime. I turned and walked away, the sharp echo of my pointe shoes striking with finality. Back in the dressing room, I dialed his greatest rival, Caelan Thorne. "Mr. Thorne," I said evenly, "I accept your offer to join your company. And one more thing—prepare a gift for me. I intend to turn Lucian's grand finale into the most spectacular downfall the art world has ever seen."

When disgraced journalist Elliot Dorne receives an anonymous invitation to Wintercroft Hall—a decaying mansion on a fog-shrouded island—he is promised the story of a lifetime. But upon his arrival, Elliot finds himself among six strangers, each with their own shadowy past. Their enigmatic host, the frail and reclusive Vivienne Ashworth, claims she has summoned them to reveal a deadly truth about the Ashworth family legacy. Before she can confess, Vivienne collapses, and chaos ensues. A violent storm traps the guests on the island, and the discovery of a gruesome murder sets paranoia ablaze. As Elliot uncovers cryptic messages, hidden rooms, and a chilling photograph that ties him to the Ashworth family, he realizes that nothing about this gathering is random. With the mansion’s dark history unraveling and secrets surfacing at every turn, Elliot must confront the ghosts of his own past to survive. But the deeper he digs, the clearer it becomes—someone inside Wintercroft Hall is playing a deadly game, and not everyone will make it out alive. When disgraced journalist Elliot Dorne is invited to the remote and crumbling Wintercroft Hall, he’s promised the story that could save his career. But the mansion’s sinister halls conceal more than just secrets—they harbor a legacy of betrayal, murder, and lies. Elliot is joined by six strangers, all summoned by the enigmatic Vivienne Ashworth. Frail and reclusive, she claims to know the truth about their darkest sins. Before she can reveal anything, a violent storm cuts them off from the outside world—and the first body is discovered. As cryptic messages and chilling clues emerge, Elliot realizes that his connection to the Ashworth family runs deeper than he could have imagined. Someone in Wintercroft Hall knows the truth about his past, and they’ll stop at nothing .

Before our wedding, my fiancée, Sarah Hargrave—a professor of medieval history—held a private ceremony in a secluded chapel in the countryside. But not with me. Under the glow of candlelight, she cradled Benjamin Wheeler—her first love, his face gaunt from the cancer consuming him—in her arms. Her smile was soft, almost reverent, as she murmured, "In the eyes of God, vows made before the altar are the only ones that matter. Even if the law says I belong to Daniel, my soul was never his." And so, to the faint echo of hymns and the scent of old incense, they drank from the same silver cup, exchanged rings, and stepped together into the dimly lit sacristy—their makeshift bridal chamber. I watched. Silent. Motionless. No outbursts, no demands for explanation. Just the quiet dialing of a clinic to undo the vasectomy I'd gotten for our future. From fifteen to thirty, I had loved Sarah for fifteen long years. But in all that time, there'd never been room for me. That space had always belonged to Benjamin, my stepbrother. So I let her go. Afterward, I joined a geological research team bound for the isolation of Antarctica—a land cut off from the world, quiet and clean. Before I left, I handed Sarah a divorce agreement…and a final gift to mark the end. I never anticipated that Sarah, who'd always met my devotion with frosty detachment, who'd never once glanced back as I walked away, would look ten years older overnight.